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The morning' sun touched lightlyOn the eyes of Lucy JordanIn her white suburban bedroomIn her white suburban townAs she lay there, neath the coversDreaming of a thousand lovers'Til the world turned orangeAnd the room went spinning' round

At the age of thirty-sevenShe realised she'd never rideThrough Paris in a sports carWith the warm wind in her hairAnd she let the phone keep ringingAs she sat there softly singing'Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorisedIn her daddy's easy chair

Her husband he was off to workAnd the kids were off to schoolAnd there were on so many waysFor her to spend the dayShe could clean the house for hoursOr rearrange the flowersOr run naked down the shady streetScreaming all the way

The evening' sun touched gently onThe eyes of Lucy JordanOn the rooftop where she climbedWhen all the laughter grew too loudAnd she bowed and curtseyed to the manWho reached and offered her his handAnd led her down to the long white carThat waited past the crowd